


Leaving Las Vegas

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris can't escape from dealing with recent events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving Las Vegas

**Author's Note:**

> this is for Giddy, and was written for the Secret Santa Challenge for 2002. my assignment: Chris/Lance, with the location of Las Vegas. my sincere thanks go to lemniskate67, Alexandria, and TNL for looking it over for me.

You don't know how many times you've been to Vegas, but every time you swear is going to be the last. Usually that oath comes at about five in the morning, when you're reaching in your pocket for another hundred and realizing it's gone, and that the drinks that have been coming all night just might be affecting your judgment. Fuck them, you think, not caring about how much money you've blown on blackjack, and when you get up from the table, there's a pretty waitress there to walk you to the elevators. You try to convince her to come upstairs with you, but she shakes her head, telling you she's got to work, and pushes the button for your floor and sends the elevator on its merry way.

Of course, when you've been in Vegas in the past, it's almost always been with the guys. There was the time you were here for the Billboard Awards, when you had to pretend to beat up on JC on camera and ended up catching him with a couple of accidental real swings, because you knew how to fight and he didn't. You always envied JC his innocence, and he'd envied you your street-smarts until then. But you'd kissed and made it better later, and he'd moaned and arched back when your lips scraped over the bruise on his cheek.

There had been other visits, a memorable three or four days during the Pop tour when you'd had a Challenge weekend, and though you'd chafed over not being able to participate in all of the events, you'd made up for it by partying with Joey and Lance, and bugging Britney and Justin in Justin's suite so that they couldn't fuck, because you figured if you weren't having sex no one else was, either.

This time is different, because you're alone -- well, alone not counting Tiny, of course. You stumble out on your floor and trip on the carpet, but catch yourself on the opposite wall, and you make it down the hall to your room without further incident. The door's barely closed before you're peeling off your clothes and stepping into the shower, letting the water run down hot and cleansing on you. You smell of liquor, you realize, even though they were mostly giving you watered-down girly drinks with flowers and umbrellas in them (you didn't care, though, the drinks were free). You let the water permeate your hair to get the smoke out; your hair's starting to grow out again, finally, and you're debating letting it get long again. You're tired of short hair; that was why you did the mohawk, then had it buzzed -- better none than the spiky look that was getting old. Maybe you'll grow it down to your ass and become a hippy.

You finish cleaning yourself off and step out of the shower, laughing to yourself as you grab a towel from the rack and dry yourself off. No commune in the world would accept you, even though you could provide them with a steady supply of premium weed. You suppose you'll just have to settle for the fact that your own little tribe is scattered to the four winds and it doesn't look likely that it'll regroup.

You open the bathroom door, towel around your waist, and scream. You stop yourself after a second -- you hate your scream, you scream like a girl -- and stare instead at Lance, who's sprawled across the bed.

"What the bloody fuck are you doing here?" you demand.

He raises an indifferent eyebrow at you. "Nice to see you too, Chris. How's everything?"

You glower at him and go over to your bag, pulling out a clean pair of boxers and pulling them up under the towel. He sits up, folding his legs Indian style, and even though you're not looking at him as you dig through your bag for pajama pants, you can feel that steady gaze on you. After six years it's still fucking unnerving the way he looks through you. "Just fine," you say levelly. "How'd you get in here?"

"Tiny gave me the spare key," he replies, and you make a mental note to fire Tiny. You've actually attempted to fire Tiny no less than a dozen times in the past; each time, he's laughed and ignored you. "I can tell you're thrilled to see me."

"I am. Come here and give me a kiss, baby." You toss the towel aside and step into your pajama pants and then turn to look at Lance, who's leaning back on his hands now. "What's the occasion?"

"I missed you," Lance says.

You cock your head, trying to fight the amusement but unable to. "You missed me, huh? I've been gone something like twenty-four hours and you missed me already? I knew the allure of the Kirkpatrick Ass was undeniable, but this is really pretty impressive. I'll have to record this one for science."

Lance's cheeks color. "You know what I mean, asshole."

"No, actually, I don't know what you mean." You jump onto the bed -- you only have one, a big one, since you weren't expecting to share your room with anyone -- and Lance rolls aside to make room for you. "Share, Bass."

"Dude, you can't seriously tell me one party after four months of not seeing each other is enough to make up for lost time," Lance says. "And then you took off. Joe said not to worry, 'cause you'd come back, but you know how he is these days."

"Wrapped up in Justin," you snort. You've tried, you really have, to be happy for them, but it's kind of hard when the guy you've been crushing on for years and your best friend, with whom you spend approximately 99.99% of your waking time, suddenly decide to hook up. Once they get past the new-romance stage of the relationship, you figure things will go back to normal, but it is one of the reasons you're out here in Vegas alone, instead of with your partner in crime.

"Yeah. So." Lance shrugs. "I thought I'd come find you."

As you fight a yawn, you wonder if Lance has been here for a while or if he just got in, which would mean he flew really fucking late for you. You're not sure you want to think about what that means. "Did you get a room?" you ask.

"Not yet," he says. "I was gonna wait and see if you wanted me here or not."

"Come on and lay the fuck down," you order him. "I'm wasted."

"No shit." He kicks his shoes off, though, and peels off his denim jacket, tossing it to a chair and then -- somewhat self-consciously -- turning away to take off his jeans. You roll over and hit the switch on the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. "Can I have a blanket?" he asks. "I'll, the couch--"

"Fuckwad, get over here," you say. When he doesn't move, you sit up and grasp in the darkness. You manage to get his hand, and he comes down to the bed, sighing heavily but letting you pull the covers up over both of you.

"You set a wake-up call?" he asks groggily, and you snort into your pillow.

"Just go to sleep, man. We're not on a schedule."

He mutters something under his breath and rolls over. You're still grinning to yourself as you fall asleep.

* * *

You wake up at one point, hot and moist and blanketed in something. You jerk reflexively and start to pull away before you realize that Lance is laying half on you, his breath steaming up your neck. You've never been one to turn down human contact so you just turn your head, breathing in the faintly fruity scent of his hair, and fall asleep again.

The next time you wake, the room is bright even through the thick curtains, and you hear the shower running and the glorious smell of coffee pulls you all the way out of your sleep-induced haze. You stumble over to the dresser where the coffee machine sits, still pouring forth nectar of the gods, and you hold a mug under the drip and pour neatly from the pot and replace it deftly, without spilling a drop. The coffee's so hot it almost scalds your mouth. Bliss.

The paper's under the door so you grab it and sit down at the table, turning to the comics section. Lance emerges from the shower a few minutes later, damp and glistening clean, and grins at you. "Hey."

You raise your coffee mug by way of reply. Lance dresses in the section of bathroom that's open to the rest of the room and you pretend not to watch him. When he comes out in a pair of jeans faded over the thighs and a t-shirt he must have borrowed from Joey with the Transformers logo, you hand him the business section and get up to brush your teeth.

"So what's the plan for today?" he asks.

You raise an eyebrow and spit into the sink. "I didn't exactly have one, aside from blowing wads of cash and possibly getting extremely drunk later. That work for you?"

"That works just fine for me." He hums absently as he works his way through the paper. "You sure you don't mind me being here?"

Even though the reason you took off out of Orlando like a bat from the proverbial hell has a lot to do with Lance, right now you actually don't mind him being here, so you say so. "How about we get some breakfast first?" you add. "You're fuckin' skin and bones. I can count your ribs."

"No, you can't," he scowls.

"What the fuck did they feed you over in Russia? Borscht?" You rinse your mouth out and come out to forage for clothes. "Got to get you fed up."

"Chris," he growls. But he lets you take him to breakfast, once you're changed, and he has a list of stuff he wants to see and it all sounds like fun, so you let him take the lead. Most of your time in Vegas has been spent at casinos -- you think that it's the primary reason to come here, after all, to gamble and make fun of the cheesy wedding chapels -- so it's kind of fun to explore a bit. And you're more than amused at the way Lance has this stuff all planned, like he's researched Vegas extensively.

At one point you ask him where he found out so much about Vegas and he flushes and says he looked it all up on the flight over. You grin and bump his shoulder. It's nice to see a Lance who's easily embarrassed again.

In return you take him to a show that night and both of you make appreciative comments about the girls, but you notice him not really looking at the girls so much as he is glancing at you under his long lashes. You smirk back at him and he goes red and downs his drink.

"What is it, man?" you say finally, when the show's over and you're wandering towards the slot machines.

"Nothing," he says, and pulls his wallet out to get change for the machines.

"Come on, Bass. You're being really obvious, so unless you want me to hold you down and tickle it out of you--"

"Just give it a fuckin' rest already," he snaps and shoots ahead of you. That's easily done because you're stopped in your tracks, watching him go, a dawning smile crossing your face. You had your suspicions, but it's nice to have them confirmed.

A few hours of blackjack and you're looking around for Lance again. It takes a couple minutes but finally you locate him by the roulette tables. You wander over, tucking your small pile of chips into your pocket, and drape yourself over Lance's back. He stiffens but doesn't say anything. You hook your chin on his shoulder and see that he's doing pretty well. "Ooh, luck be a Lance tonight," you mutter in his ear.

"You're drunk," he says.

"So are you," you reply. You've been having beer tonight, and you're pleasantly buzzing and can't remember why you shouldn't be touching Lance. "You smell nice."

"Chris." He stops then and smiles as the wheel stops spinning and more chips get pushed towards him.

"You're sexy when you're on a winning streak," you whisper in his ear. He pushes you back and you stumble, disoriented for a second. He turns around, his eyes flashing.

"Fuck off, Kirkpatrick," he says. "Don't do this." He scoops up his chips and you watch him go, and you don't really feel much like losing any more money tonight so you head towards the elevators. Maybe you'll make some coffee and check your email.

You've been websurfing for a couple of hours when the door opens and Lance slips in. He sighs when he sees you awake and then comes in, raking a hand through his disheveled hair.

"Hey," you say. "J says hi."

"You talked to him?" he asks.

"He sent me an email. Said to take care of you."

Lance rolls his eyes and goes to the drawer where he put his clothes. You're not even pretending to not watch him this time. He takes out silk pajamas and heads for the bathroom.

"Lance," you say, before he disappears. He stops, looks back at you. "We should talk, you think?"

He just goes into the bathroom. You sigh and disconnect from the 'net, close the laptop, and change your own clothes. You can hear Lance going through his bathroom routine -- wash his face, brush his teeth, take a piss -- and while you wait you pour more coffee, one for each of you. You play with the ties of your pajama pants, more nervous with each passing minute, but finally he emerges, scrubbed clean and looking unsettlingly young. He doesn't look thrilled but he crosses the room, drops down into the chair across from you, and you're aware that it's more than you deserve after your behavior earlier.

"Thank you," you say.

"This isn't exactly easy for me either." He picks up his coffee in both hands, long slender fingers cupping the mug.

"I didn't think it would be." You desperately fight the urge to say something inane and light before the moment gets any heavier.

He looks up at you, his eyes pale and strange, distant. "Why did you do it?" he asks.

"The truth?" You close your eyes when he nods. "I wanted you."

You hear him hiss, a sharp intake of breath. "No," he says.

"Jesus, Lance, why the hell else would I show up in your house and seduce you?" You realize you're glaring at him and pull your eyes away, staring instead at the window, the folds of heavy drapes.

"I thought you were doing it to fuck with my head," he says quietly after a couple of moments of drawn-out silence. "You, you'd never, I never had any idea you might have been interested in me."

You shrug and stare at the coffee mug in your hands, held loosely on your thighs. "I was. I am, still. I just picked a crappy time to show it."

"Got that right." Lance stands up, putting his mug down, and moves back towards the door in a slow restless sort of pacing. "You had six years before I hopped a plane to Russia, and you waited until the night before I left?"

"You were underage for at least a couple of those years," you point out, but it's a lame excuse and you know it. "Besides, I couldn't believe you didn't know."

"Well, I couldn't believe you didn't know I wanted you, so," he says and you look up just as he goes white as a sheet.

"Oh," is all you can say. And, "really?"

"Yes, really. Jesus Christ. You go on about how you know more about us than anyone else and you never saw it. Too busy looking at Joey."

It's your turn to flush. "And yet you knew about that," you say, and your voice sounds weak.

"Kind of hard not to notice," he says, a bit more kindly. "You used to fuckin' drape yourself all over him -- God, you don't know how jealous I was of him. How much I wanted to be him. I thought if I was him, I'd see you, I'd never let you go."

You swallow down the lump in your throat and stand, setting the mug aside. "Then why not, Lance?"

"Why not what?" He stops and turns to look at you, and his eyes are bright with so much -- pain and fear, anger, loss. It hurts to look at him but you don't want to stop.

"I want you. You want me. You already know I'm hot stuff in the sack."

He's shaking his head. "I can't, I can't do it like this, Chris. I can't wake up and find you gone."

"You won't have to." You're moving towards him even though you don't remember telling your feet to go. He starts to back away, so you reach for his hands to hold him in place. "I won't go."

"Last time," he tries to protest.

"Last time I was scared and part of me thought I was never going to see you again. Even if nothing went wrong, because you'd be too big for any of us after it--"

"That's not true, you know it's not," but his hands are turning to hold yours and he's not moving away from you anymore.

"Shut up, I'm an old man and I'm allowed to have stupid fears."

"You're not old," he says.

"I'm a dirty old man and I want you," you tell him. He laughs at that, almost against his will, and you pull him closer.

"I want you, too." His eyes are moving, the way eyes move when a person is so close to you that the color of their eyes practically merges into one big blur and you wonder what he's looking for in your face.

"But what if," he starts to say. You cut him off by leaning up and kissing him. He's startled enough that he doesn't react at first, and then he gets into it, his mouth parting for your tongue. When the kiss is over, you're pressed against him and his arms are around your waist. You don't remember how they got there. You don't care.

"Enough with the what-ifs," you say. "I'm not letting any more chances get away from me."

"OK," he says, and his face is so relieved, so light, that you can't help but grin back at him.

So yeah, this trip to Vegas is definitely different. You think it's by far the best one yet, but at the same time, you don't care if you ever come back.


End file.
